Sculpture
by sherlockthecockblock
Summary: Everyone's been keeping secrets from Will. The question is, how important are they, and how long has this been going on?
1. Chapter 1: Shaped

"Can you look?"

It's the impossible-to-answer question, the one that keeps coming back to Will, and there's no way he can look this time, but he has to.

"I…" Will pauses, before nodding, not looking at the agent. "I can look." He stares at the mutilated body, heart taken, ribs rearranged into an intricate sculpture, as he listens to Jack call out for the rest of the FBI team to clear the room. This one is in Baltimore itself- too close to home, he thinks- and he has no idea yet what the ramifications of that may be.

Will closes his eyes. One, two, three swipes. The man's chest seals closed and the pool of blood shrinks back into the empty cavity. He has a heart again.

Will opens his eyes. He is not Will Graham. He is the man who will murder this human being.

Two steps forward, throw the man into the back wall of the room. Knife wound to the left arm and a slash across his face. He feels a fingernail scrape his jawline. The knife flips in his hand and he gets the man in a stranglehold. Another scrape to his arm. He jabs the knife behind the man's right ear, just next to the back of his jawbone. He kills him in this way to keep the heart whole.

This is his design.

Quick, surgical incisions expose the rib cage, which he cuts carefully. He'd meant to do this the whole time. He removes the front of the rib cage, setting it aside as he removes the heart, full of hot, heavy blood. The scissors separate the ribs neatly and he begins to arrange them. There is a specific way they must be.

This is not art. This is a message to someone very important, one that only they can see.

Will realizes what the message is and in the same instant, he is in Hannibal Lecter's office, unable to count for the shift. Lecter is standing before him, looking composed as always, waiting for a response to an inquiry Will doesn't remember.

There is a scrape on his face, and a bandage on his arm.

The gun comes up to point at Lecter's head before Will's mind can catch up.

"It was you," he gasps, not out of surprise, but out of a sense of betrayal. Instead of denying it, as Will expects, he nods.

"Yes, it was," Lecter murmurs in his lilting accent. "But are you really going to tell anyone?"


	2. Chapter 2: Interpretation

Will closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them, he's bound to the chair he always sits in when visiting Lecter for a session. Lecter is sitting across from him, tapping the index finger of his right hand on the arm of the chair, the same serene look on his face. "You've just lost time again," he says knowingly, uncrossing his legs and standing as Will tests the bonds around his arms. "You didn't resist when I tied the knots around your wrists."

Will looks down, very determinedly not looking at the psychiatrist's eyes. "I got your message."

"I thought you would," he murmurs, walking around behind Will's back. "Tell me, Will… what did the others think of it?"

"They thought it was supposed to be… art. But just art. Without a message," Will mutters, trying to ignore the prickly feeling at the back of his neck.

Hannibal- _Dr. Lecter,_ Will checks himself- places his hands firmly and very purposefully on Will's shoulders, just close enough to his neck that he could very easily strangle him. Strangely, the thought calms Will enough to focus his mind. Hannibal will not kill Will, not today. It's not his design.

"But as the painter Samuel Adoquei once said, _'A painting without a clarifying message is like wallpaper or just a clip of an image.'_" Will feels Hannibal's breath on his neck as he leans down and involuntarily shudders. "What did you see, Will?"

"What you wanted me to."

"And what was that?" He's using the therapist voice, the one that demands an answer.

"A stag." Will turns his head to escape the heat on his ear and neck. "You've been using the stag against me… this whole time."

Hannibal finishes his circle of the chair, and stands directly in front of Will, hands lying over the bonds on his wrists, slightly leaned forward into Will's space. "Yes," he answers simply. "I have indeed been manipulating you… to an extent. But I did not create these images, Will- you did."

"You lied to me." It's not a question- this means, then, that the scan came back positive for something, anything at all.

Hannibal is silent for a minute, gazing at Will's face, and Will looks down out of habit. He doesn't like eye contact. "Once again, you are correct." He straightens up, removing his hands, and returns to his desk, pulling out a file. "You've been diagnosed with encephalitis. The whole right side of your brain is inflamed, causing the hallucinations, the loss of time, and the sleepwalking… I did not do this to you, Will, I simply gave your fevered mind an image to focus on."

"Because you needed to distract me," Will whispers. He gathers the courage and looks Hannibal in the eyes. "Why would you let me figure it out now?"

Hannibal's mouth turns up just slightly at the corners. "Now you begin to ask the right questions." He kneels by the edge of Will's chair. "It got out of my control, Will. In much the same way that your mind has been losing time to escape from the murders Jack Crawford shows you, it has allowed you to perceive this." Will breaks eye contact and stares at his own lap. The thought that he might not be able to control his mind horrifies him.

"Will, look at me," the mildly accented voice breaks into his thoughts. Will ignores him until the tips of Hannibal's fingers press under his chin and he automatically turns his head with the pressure. Hannibal is now standing in front of him (when did that happen?) and he moves his hand to trace a line on Will's cheek. "I am well aware of what I've done. I have dozens of victims spanning decades of life. It is how I live. I wanted you to see the stag and know that the Chesapeake Ripper was playing with you; I did not want you to know that it was me."

"Jack's been looking for you for a long time," Will comments, trying to ignore Hannibal's wandering hand.

"How ironic, that he found me so long ago," Hannibal replies. "But he is not looking for you now. What a meal you would make, Will… You should be flattered that I would put you in such a place of honor. I believe you understand, or at least empathize. I would make you a feast fit for kings."

"You won't kill me," Will dares to say, meeting Hannibal's eyes again.

"And why not?"

"Because you value my life," he decides. "And because this isn't the first time this has happened; you trusted me to keep Abigail's secret, so you can trust me to keep this one." Will knows Hannibal won't allow him to walk, but he needs him to consider this alternative, at least for a few more minutes-

"What makes you think that?" Hannibal draws up a chair and neatly sits in it, legs crossed and hands folded. "You must realize the intricacies of the situation. We are responsible for Abigail's well-being, as she has no one to protect her from Jack Crawford's interrogations. I, however…" He grins, and Will swears he can see his tongue run behind his bottom teeth. "I am fully capable of keeping my hands clean. You will die in this room, and they will never know. I will never be suspected." He reaches forward, takes one of Will's hands in his own, and inspects the nail on his index finger.

Realizing what the situation needs, Will steels himself to be more intimate with the doctor. "I can give you my word," he says, lowering his voice slightly. He grips Hannibal's hands with his own. "I can give you… anything… you might want from me." His heart is pounding and he knows the doctor can feel it and he hopes beyond reason that he'll pass it off as adrenaline and not fear.

"Are you sure you would want that?" Hannibal Lecter, always the gentleman, covers Will's hand with his left gently. "Or are you just bargaining for your life?"

Will forces himself to say, "I want it."

It's all very blurred, but the next thing Will knows, Hannibal is somehow occupying the same chair space that he is, legs straddling Will's lap, hands pulling his face up almost painfully, lips locked on his. And it's wrong, he knows, but he can't ignore the strange feeling of excitement that wells up. Hannibal chuckles softly into Will's mouth. "It seems to me your desire is genuine," he murmurs, pulling his face away (Will represses that ridiculous desire for _more_, because he shouldn't want it). "I thought you were simply buying time." He slides a finger under the band of Will's jeans and he gasps involuntarily, hot desire burning through him.

"I could make such quick work of you… but I don't think I will. Remember this, Will… if you enjoy something…" Hannibal's lips nip at his ear here, and his hands are nimbly undoing the buttons on his shirt, and Will is breathing hard. "Go slowly. Always slow. You have to _relish _it."

Trying to control his heart, Will says, "Why are you so willing… to let me go now?"

"I'm not," he replies, running his fingers through Will's hair. "I will, of course, still have to kill you… but why deny you of this pleasure while you are alive? I am many things, Will, but cruel is not one of them." Hannibal runs his tongue along Will's jawline, and Will stifles a moan deep in his throat.

"A good cook always tastes his food, right?" he opts to say instead, trying to distract the doctor.

Hannibal laughs. "Why, Will, I think you've gotten a sense of humor," he murmurs, pushing his hand deeper into Will's jeans. Will gasps, curling his fingers in an effort to hold back.

"You're wrong, you know," he manages before his voice gives out into a moan, throwing his head back. When he looks back, Hannibal is wearing a shit-eating grin to match the best of them.

"How so?"

Several cars with flashing lights pull up outside the office windows. "I was just buying for time," Will whispers, knowing that they won't get in fast enough to save him but they will arrest Hannibal. "I had an appointment."

The grin falls off his face almost immediately (it would be comical if he weren't about to die, Will reflects, and it is to a degree) and is replaced with a murderous look- not one of fury, but one of calm, collected anger. Hannibal walks to his desk and pulls out a silver knife with an intricately carved handle. He places the blade against Will's neck just as the door slams open.

"You've done well, my friend," he murmurs. "Not many people could fool me for so long. Unfortunately, you needed to distract me for just a few more seconds… Life is full of ironies, isn't it?"

He slices the blade through Will's neck, and Will sees blood splatter Hannibal's face, and thinks, briefly, that his facial expression doesn't change- he must be very used to doing this- and then that it is the last thing he will see before he will die.

The thought doesn't bother him much.

He feels hot blood sheeting down his front, soaking the shirt that just moments ago Hannibal was removing, and also inside his throat- his esophagus must've gotten cut, but not much, or else he'd be choking on his own blood- and he struggles with his own consciousness.

"You should have known better," Hannibal whispers, before turning to the door and kneeling on the ground. Will can see the picture he's painting- the juxtaposition of the dying man, bloody, as though draped in red velvet, and the living man, kneeling, hands joined as though praying. It is his design. He can only take a moment to admire it before agents burst through the door and shove his face into the carpet, and unconsciousness is threatening to take over.

Jack Crawford is there, and so is Alana Bloom, he thinks; though why she would be is beyond him. It was Jack's meeting he missed, after all. One of them tries to stop the bleeding, but inexpertly (like how he tried to stop Abigail's bleeding, but if Hannibal hadn't been there, she would have died) and the other unties his wrists. He is fading. Someone is speaking, but the words don't reach him, at least not their meaning…

"…hear me? Will? Please answer me! You need…"

Will has a moment to thinkthat this is Hannibal's resignation, and it is beautiful. Then he's gone.


	3. Chapter 3: Burning

Will wakes up in a room that is sterile white and beeping constantly. Everything's fuzzy around the edges, and it's not because his glasses are off, which they are- he doesn't need them to see, per say, just to sharpen things up enough to read the small print on restaurant menus.

Restaurant menus. Food. Hannibal-

Will bolts up, and the world comes into sharp focus, along with mass amounts of pain from the slit on his neck (red-hot iron wire cutting through his throat) and he gasps for air, scrabbling at the breathing tube on his nose. Multiple pairs of hands pull at his arms, and he tries to bat them away, but he's too exhausted, too weak.

"Will, stop that, you'll hurt yourself," one voice enters his panicked mind. He stops thrashing out immediately.

"Alana?" he croaks, regretting it the instant he speaks, because the cut flares from red-hot to white-hot. She steps around a couple of nurses, just as Will remembers her, assertive and strong.

Alana pulls up a chair next to Will's bed. "You gave us a scare for a couple days, Will," she says softly, putting her hand over Will's. A vivid memory hits him of Hannibal doing the exact same thing and he snatches his hand back quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"No, it's okay," he interrupts. "I just… a flashback, you know." Will rubs his hands together, noticing the slight rug-burn marks on his wrists. "Where… where is he?"

Alana's face darkens. "High-security prison. We have him on assault, but we can't prove he's killed anyone."

"Alana, he's the Chesapeake Ripper," he says frantically. "You have to prove it, he'll kill again, he _doesn't care_. He's been- and all those times we were there-"

"Will, breathe," Alana commands him. "How do you know all this?"

"It's what I do. And he as good as told me," Will mutters, rubbing his hands harder.

"Will," Alana begins. Will doesn't notice. _"Will._" She purposefully grabs his hands and separates them- he's rubbed them so hard he's in danger of stripping the skin from them. "We'll need you to put in a witness statement, okay? Now that you're awake," she says slowly. Will nods, keeping his eyes focused on her. She hands him his glasses. "You might need these," she adds, smiling slightly. She stands and goes to leave the room.

"Alana," he says quietly. She pauses at the door, turns back. "Did my heart stop?"

To her infinite credit, she doesn't ask why he wants to know. "Twice," she answers. "Once in the ambulance and another time yesterday. We didn't know if you would live or not." She looks like she wants to say something else, but she shakes her head and leaves Will alone with his memories.

It's about two hours before someone comes back to his room, and it's Jack Crawford this time. He hasn't slept much. "Back in the world of the living, I see," he greets Will, taking the chair that Alana didn't move back. "You know how this works. Tell me what happened and anything he might have told you, and we can use it in convicting him. Withhold anything, and you could be arrested for obstruction of justice." Will notices the way they're avoiding saying Hannibal's name, and decides that two can play that game.

In short, emotionless sentences, Will describes the losses of time that led to his revelation and his capture, and what Hannibal told him while he was hostage. He doesn't tell Jack about the hormonal turmoil of his body (how could he even begin to describe something he's never felt before?) but that's hardly important anyway; it won't help him convict Hannibal. He sees Jack wince a couple times, and ignores him while continuing his bland monologue.

After he's finished, he decides that Jack owes him answers. "Where are you keeping him?"

It takes Jack a minute (he's writing on a clipboard, far more than Will spoke, and if he could guess, it's a referral to a new psychiatrist or at least something taking him off active duty; did it really take a near-death experience for him to recognize how wrong having Will in the field was?) but when he looks up, he answers, "I can't give you that kind of information."

"I have the right to know."

Jack frowns. "I suppose you do, but the regulations restrict me from telling you."

"If you don't tell me, I'll find out for myself." It wouldn't be hard; Will's sure it's all over the FBI databases. He'd just have to get back into the Academy.

Jack sighs. "Fine. He's in a high-security prison in Baltimore, awaiting trial for the only charge we have him on permanently, which is trying to kill you. Don't ask me which one, because I don't know- they seem to think I'm too close on this one." Jack runs a hand over his head. "You're too close too. I sent you to Lecter-"

"This wasn't your fault," Will tries, but he can't really form sentences now that the only question he actually had has come up blank. He's exhausted. Nearly dying does that to people, he supposes. Will leans back into his pillows, envisioning himself sinking through them.

"Get some rest, Will," Jack orders him. "We've got enough for now." Will tilts his head to indicate he's heard, but he's just so tired…

He opens his eyes again to a dark room. For a moment, he thinks he's just lost time, but he feels rested; he must have actually slept. The relief he feels is palpable. It's late at night, or maybe early in the morning, he can't see the clock on the wall because it would require him to turn his head. No one else is in the room, at least no one else awake. Someone's sleeping on the two-person couch at the end of the room.

Curiosity drives him to disconnect his breathing tube and stand slowly, walking with his IV stand across the linoleum floor.

It's Abigail Hobbs.

A slight frown comes to Will as he realizes she must have snuck out of the psychiatric facility and gone to Hannibal's house, only to find it empty, cordoned off by crime scene tape. No one brings her news in the facility because they think it might upset her, but Will knows she's strong enough to handle most anything- after all, she found out her father had been feeding her human meat for years and didn't break too completely. He can picture her wandering into a gas station newsstand with her hood pulled up over her head, gazing at a newspaper headline, and heading out to find him. She's intelligent, and would know a media frenzy when she saw it- look for the hospital with the most reporters outside, and then for the room guarded by FBI agents.

He pulls a blanket off of his bed and covers her with it gently, before stumbling back and climbing awkwardly back under his sheets. Abigail stirs, then curls on her side, looking more content than he's ever seen her.

Will wishes he could be that at peace.


	4. Chapter 4: Subdued

"Why was Dr. Lecter arrested?" Abigail asks, finally speaking after a long silence, sitting across from Will in his small room at the hospital.

Will looks her over. "I think you know the answer to that." Abigail looks away, closing her eyes, and Will feels a sharp pang of regret for being so blunt with her. "That was out of line, I..." He doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

"Don't apologize," she says quietly. "I've known for a while, I just didn't..." Abigail stands, walks around his bed to stare out the window into the street below, where masses of journalists have gathered to document what they're describing as the "Scandal of the Century".

_Didn't want to believe it_, Will finishes in his head. "Because he was kind to you." It's not a question. "He was kind to me too. Always so polite. No one really had any reason to suspect he would… you know." Abigail nods. She's facing away from him, her arms folded into her chest, and Will recognizes the position as one that keeps her together, keeps her from falling apart. "Abigail," he says softly, sitting up.

She turns and sits on the edge of his bed, and Will puts a hand on her shoulder. When she speaks, her voice is slightly muffled by her hand. "First my dad, and now... I _trusted _him..."

"So did I." Will and Abigail sit there until the door opens with a soft knock. It's Alana Bloom. Alana looks sad, but not the kind of sad that Will is experiencing. The kind of sad that comes before the act- apologetically sad. "What happened?" he asks, ignoring all pretense of politeness.

Alana doesn't speak, but steps aside to reveal Jack Crawford and two accompanying agents. "Miss Hobbs, if you'll accompany us," he says briskly, gesturing the two agents forward.

"Why do you need her?" Abigail has stood and backed into the wall, and Will puts out an arm.

Alana sighs. "I told him it was unnecessary, but-"

"We need you to come in for some questioning," Crawford interrupts.

"I didn't do anything," Abigail whispers, balling a hand in the back of Will's shirt.

"It's routine- you were closer to Dr. Lecter than the rest of us..." Alana trails off as she sees the pieces click into place in Will's head.

"You still suspect her of killing Boyle," he says. "You've already questioned her, and now you come back with other agents to intimidate her into confessing to something she _didn't do." _

"They aren't for her," Crawford tells him. "They're for you." One of the agents pushes a button on Will's IV while the other gathers Abigail.

"What are you doing?" Alana pushes past the first agent, unhooking Will's IV with expert hands, and looks up, furious. "You can't just sedate someone into compliance!"

"I can if he's threatening to obstruct justice," Jack informs her. Alana pulls the needle out of Will's arm, but he can already feel the drugs working their way through his body, dimming his vision. Abigail tries to reach out to Will, but the agent stops her and begins shepherding her toward the door. He has to talk to her.

"It's okay," Will begins. "You'll be out in no time. I'll be right- right here…" Will falls back onto his pillows. He can hear her calling for him, but her voice is fading as she gets pushed down the hallway. Alana grips his hand, pushes his hair out of his face. "Make sure she's okay," he manages. "Please. She can't…"

"I will," Alana tells him. "Abigail is my patient, and I won't let Jack use her as a scapegoat." Will's eyes flutter, and the room spins a little bit. "Will?"

For the second time that week (it's becoming a bad habit, he thinks) he fades into unconsciousness against his own will.


End file.
